Sunday, December 18, 2011

I am the knuckle curled beneath your hang-down chin, lifting against your ‘no’. I am the voice asking you to look up, look at me, look in my eyes. I have your secrets and I am keeping them, cradling them like helpless babies. You hold back, turn away. Refuse.

If you could look at me to see what floats like a ghost in the space between your eyes and mine, and what waits just beyond that ghost? Truths may take a different shape, may not bite, and bring another chance. Who else wants you to listen and what are the offered words? An answer for now may be just this much:

Have faith. Faith enough to know that you do have a soul, A soul that can cross the distance between here and wherever it seeks to go. You could let that curled little girl within you stand up, have its run into the mist that waits among the trees just beyond us. You have all you need to arrive.

When tears form at the corners of your eyes, they form then in mine. And they form all around us. They catch light and allow it to bend, shine, and catch color. Let ours be deep green. Let it be red or autumn orange. Let it be invisible. Let it be everywhere.

About these Poems

I was once driving in Sonoma and saw a series of fence posts that marked a field. The fence between these posts had long before fallen, but the posts remained to delineate a rancher's field. These poems likewise delineate a place, often unremarkable, where souls exist. By marking out a place that might otherwise go unnoticed, I want to draw attention to what is everywhere and all around us. I'm glad you stopped here. Thanks for reading and commenting on what you find. . .
Greg John